


Charade

by JennK528



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennK528/pseuds/JennK528
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laundry night and an old movie.  Just a little secret that Dean would rather Sam never found out.  Too bad he didn't take into account the effects of too much cold medication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kati and Swanseajill for the beta and the feedback!
> 
> And thanks to stealthyone for all the past betas and banging my stories into shape – this one's for you, sweetie.
> 
> This is set in season 2, sometime after "Croatoan" and "Hunted."

 

Dean lost the toss. After a heated argument, with neither of them backing down an inch, they'd finally settled on flipping a coin because Dean absolutely refused to do rock-paper-scissors. Not that it mattered, apparently. The fates obviously hated him.

So with a sour grumble he bundled up their dirty laundry – the usual complement of jeans and t-shirts covered in bloodstains, splatters of assorted monster gore, ground-in graveyard grime, and with an underlying smell of sweat and smoke – and stalked out of the motel room. He slammed the door on Sam's smugly victorious grin, threw the bag into the Impala's backseat, and headed out to find a laundromat.

He thought he'd spotted something that looked promising over at a little strip mall just off the freeway exit, so he backtracked a few miles from their motel, wearily grateful when it turned out he was right. Sandwiched between a pet store and a discount haircut salon, the laundromat was the only business in the mall still open besides a movie rental place. Dean pulled into a parking place right in front of the brightly lit windows and contemplated the ninety or so minutes of quiet boredom ahead of him.

Not that quiet boredom would be so bad right now. They'd pushed themselves relentlessly in the past month. Too many hunts back to back with barely a moment to catch their breath before gearing up for the next one, and the last job, thankfully a simple salt-and-burn to send a lonely, grieving spirit to rest, had nevertheless seen them running raggedly on empty.

Happened like that sometimes. A dry spell, then suddenly it was like all the spirits in the freakin' neighborhood decided to go crazy at the same time. Dean had solemnly suggested a theory to Sam involving solar flares and Mars in retrograde, managed to keep a straight face for about fifteen seconds, then totally cracked up at Sam's expression, which clearly wondered what the hell Dean knew about solar flares. Not to mention Mars in retrograde.

That had been a week ago, and Dean didn't think he'd laughed since. He'd just been too damn tired. While neither of them had gotten hurt in the last few days – well, not enough to worry about, anyway – they both had a nice collection of the usual variously healing bruises, cuts, scrapes, and strained muscles. They'd been damn lucky, really. But they needed a break. Before it all caught up with them, bit them in the ass, and they made some stupid, careless mistake.

But for now, mostly, they were just…tired. Dean sighed and his shoulders sagged. Tired, irritable, and snapping at each other during too many long nights in a row filled with too much bad coffee, greasy food, and the stench of burning bones. So he honestly didn't mind getting out of the motel room for a little while before the bickering escalated into something raw and hurtful. It wasn't as though they ever stayed mad at each other for long, but fighting was harder if both of them weren't in the same room. Or digging in the same grave.

Dean sighed again and eased himself from the Impala with a quiet groan that only slipped out because Sam wasn't there to hear it. The twinge in his back did not go unnoticed when he reached in to haul out the bag of laundry.

With the duffel slung over his shoulder, Dean pushed through the double doors, stepping from the cool night into bright warmth filled with the familiar scents of detergent and dryer heat. He quickly scanned the room, then made his way over to a line of washing machines in the far corner, away from the few others in use. No one in the mostly deserted premises paid him any attention, not the two college-age girls – roommates, probably – studying together at a table. Not the older guy, flipping cards in a game of solitaire. An ignored television, tuned to CNN, droned quietly in the background.

Evidently, the local laundromat was quite the hotspot in the middle of the week.

Dean dropped the bag on the floor and started pulling out muddy jeans and bloody t-shirts.

"Need any help, hon?"

God, that voice. Low, throaty, and sexy as hell. It was Kathleen Turner – hell, make that Lauren Bacall – working in a strip mall laundry in southeastern Nebraska. Who woulda thought?

Dean swung around, a smile already curving his lips. And then one eyebrow went up as he glanced down.

She was tiny, just over five feet tall. Probably somewhere around fifty or so, with short, dark hair beginning to turn a little gray. But she gave him a grin, all the same, a trifle wry, as though his reaction was not at all unfamiliar.

Dean shook his head, still smiling, a little wry now himself, and answered her question. "Nah, been through more laundromats in the past few years than I even wanna think about. Thanks, though."

"Well, give a holler if these cranky machines give ya any trouble," she said, somehow making the words sound like a torch singer husking them out in a smoky nightclub.

He blinked, and cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Thanks, I will."

She nodded and headed over to the counter that ran along one wall, sat down on a tall stool, and picked up a battered paperback.

Dean turned back to the rather pungent pile of clothes he'd just begun sorting and wrinkled his nose, hoping the woman hadn't noticed the smell. He fished out the heavy-duty pre-wash stain remover and, with a grimace, got to work. Sam would sulk for days if Dean put his shorts and precious whippet t-shirt in with the monster gore, so he very considerately made two piles, and reminded himself to tell Sam he had an awesome big brother. Blood – and other – stains soon treated, Dean stuffed the clothes into their respective washers and studied the machines in front of him. He poured in the detergent, plunked in the requisite number of quarters, and – _What the hell, live it up –_ threw in an extra twenty-five cents for the super cycle, then hit "start."

For a moment, Dean thought about going over to talk to the two girls, indulging in some casual conversation, a little harmless flirting to help pass the time. But even the clothes he was wearing were none too fresh, and what with the three-day-binge look and the dark bruise on his jaw, he'd probably only scare them. On top of that, he doubted he had the energy for it.

So instead he sank into a nearby chair, an ugly plaid monstrosity that actually turned out to be more comfortable than it looked, and rifled through the newspapers and magazines piled on the table next to him. Picking a random, outdated issue of _People_, Dean stretched out his legs and settled in to catch up on all the earth-shattering celebrity gossip he'd missed while out digging up graves and taking care of a few restless ghosts.

Thirty-three minutes later, he decided he really hadn't missed anything, and his head was beginning to nod heavily forward. Dean tossed the magazine aside to stand and stretch before wandering over to the vending machines in the opposite corner. By the time he'd snagged a can of Mountain Dew and a bag of peanut M&amp;Ms, his two loads of super cycle wash were done.

"Oh, forget this," said a voice behind him, laced with disgust and frustration.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw one of the college girls thump her textbook shut with an air of finality. She got up and flipped through channels on the TV before stopping at something that flickered black and white on the screen, turning up the volume a little.

Dean grinned and transferred both loads into one of the big dryers, dropped in his last five quarters, and sat down again for another round of waiting. He flicked a glance at his watch and smothered a yawn. Forty minutes. He just had to stay awake forty more minutes…

The girls left soon after, gathering up baskets of freshly folded laundry, books, and backpacks. The woman who ran the place called out a cheerful goodnight to them on their way out the door.

The guy playing solitaire had taken off earlier, around when Dean had been reading about some blonde starlet's most recent meltdown, and so he now had the place to himself. Well, except for the lady with the drop-dead sexy voice.

He resumed his sprawl in the ugly plaid chair and actually zoned out for a few minutes, eyes closed, mind drifting.

"_I hate this nightgown. I hate all my nightgowns. And I hate all my underwear, too."_

"_My dear, you have lovely things."_

"_But I'm not two hundred years old! Why can't I wear pajamas?"_

The familiar voice with its upper class British accent filtered into his consciousness. Blinking out of his near-doze, he squinted over at the TV, still tuned to whatever station the college girl had been watching.

Dean's knees melted when he saw her appear on the screen. Just like they always did. He couldn't seem to help it. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, he sat up a little straighter to get a better perspective. Oh, yeah. _This_ part. It had just started…

When the television suddenly sounded louder, it took him a moment or two to notice it was because the background hum of the dryer had clicked off into silence. Dean levered himself stiffly to his feet and, with one eye still on the TV, began to sort and fold their motley collection of faded jeans and mended shirts. _But clean, at least_, he thought, studying his handiwork as he held up a t-shirt that had been liberally spattered with…something really gross from one hunt or another during the past week.

Dean worked slower and slower, trying to make the simple chore last. He glanced from the neat stacks to the dwindling messy pile on the table, and his efforts soon became a last-ditch desperate measure that involved matching Sam's socks. Just a few more minutes, and it would be that scene where –

"I'm sorry, hon, but it's ten o'clock and I'm gettin' ready to close up."

Dean turned, startled, a sock in one hand. "Oh." He blinked. "Uh, yeah." He tossed the unmatched sock back into the pile. "Sorry about that. Guess I lost track of time."

She gave him a genuinely apologetic smile, then tilted her head toward the television. "It's a good one. Don't blame ya for wanting to watch."

He ducked to hide the blush that suddenly warmed his cheeks. Busted. Watching a chickflick. A classic, but still… Then he looked up and grinned at her. "She's just kinda hard to resist, you know?"

After an astute, considering stare, she nodded as though reaching a decision. "Well, here's my offer," the woman said, the smile growing a bit mischievous. "Unless you've got other plans, why not stick around and finish the movie with me? I'll even make popcorn."

There was a hint of wistful longing in her voice. A touch of loneliness in her eyes that Dean recognized. Too similar to what he'd seen staring back at him from too many grimy bathroom mirrors over the last few years. Those bleak months after Sam had left, and then when Dad had the two of them split up, sending Dean off on his own…

He wondered what she saw in his eyes.

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse. Not because she was fifty years old and he was twenty-eight, or because he looked and felt like total crap, but… He wavered.

Why _not_ stay and watch a movie? Why go back to yet another dreary motel room and a tired, crabby Sam? They were damn well sick of each other, Sam wouldn't miss him, and his brother could survive without clean sweatpants for a couple of hours.

"I promise not to get you drunk and molest you," she added, her smile dimming just a little when he still hadn't said anything.

Dean shook off the brief melancholic reverie and mustered a quick grin. "Who says I'd mind?" But he nevertheless pointed out, "I could be a serial killer, for all you know."

"I kinda doubt serial killers would pre-soak their bloodstained t-shirts," she said with raised eyebrows. "I think they'd throw away the evidence instead."

That brought another embarrassed blush to his face. So much for her not noticing the state of his laundry… "Yeah, well," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. He slanted a glance at her. "Okay."

"Okay? Yeah?" Her face brightened.

He nodded. "And I like my popcorn with _lots _of butter."

She laughed.

"Dean," he said, putting out his hand.

"Lola," she said, taking it. "Nice to meet you." She turned her head to catch sight of the television. "We'd better hurry or we're gonna miss the part where he figures out who she is. So drag a chair over and make yourself comfortable while I lock up."

"Need help?"

"Nah." She made a shooing motion. "Go on, sit down."

"Yes, ma'am." Dean grinned again and turned back to what he had begun to think of as The Comfy Chair. He hauled it over in front of the television in favor of utterly ignoring the remainder of his laundry piled on the table. He found another chair for Lola as she went about closing the place down for the night.

The bright overhead lights flickered off, the window blinds rattled down, until nothing but the glow from the television screen and a single desk lamp on the front counter lit the big room.

"Can I miss the next three minutes?" Lola called out, her voice muffled.

Dean glanced up at the screen as he positioned the chairs. "Yep, it's safe."

She had disappeared into what was probably an office, and now stuck her head out the door. "Want a beer?"

"What happened to not trying to get me drunk?" He wandered over to lean against the doorframe and peered in. Big desk, a clunky older computer, neatly stacked trays and files. Framed photos of smiling people. A small refrigerator took up one corner, a coffeemaker and a microwave sat on a counter next to it. The microwave was already in use.

"Oh, I lied." Lola gave him a wink before turning around to open the fridge.

Dean huffed a quiet snort of laughter, the smile lingering on his face. Then shook his head, and said, not without some regret, "Think I'm gonna have to pass on the beer tonight." Not adding that it wouldn't go too well with the painkillers he'd grudgingly admitted to needing a couple of hours before, he just said, "I'll stick with Mountain Dew."

"Well, I'm gonna live it up and indulge," she said, grinning, a bottle dangling from her fingers as she shut the fridge door.

"No molesting, ma'am," Dean said solemnly. "You have my word."

She sighed as she popped the cap off the beer bottle. "Just my luck. A gentleman."

"On occasion."

He really liked the sound of her laugh.

Soft explosions began to emanate from the microwave as Lola set two bowls on the counter and checked the timer. "Almost there," she said cheerfully. "Less than a minute."

The smell of hot popcorn suddenly had Dean's mouth watering and his stomach rumbling.

"Go sit down and watch the movie," Lola said, giving him a nudge on the shoulder. "You're my guest. I'll bring it out."

Dean ducked his head, suddenly and oddly shy with the situation, with her kindness, and jammed his hands into his pockets. "All right, all right," he said, rolling his eyes and backing away when she gave him another poke. "I'm going."

Retrieving his can of pop, he slouched into the chair with a sigh. He fumbled for his phone, stuck in a pocket of his jacket, and flipped it open to call Sam, to let him know he wasn't coming back right away. For a long moment, Dean stared at the little screen without hitting Sam's number. Sam would probably just snap at him, Dean would give it right back, and he was just too damn tired to deal with another stupid argument over nothing. Besides, Sam would no doubt eventually reach the obvious conclusion that Dean had hit a bar for a few drinks and some pool hustling. The usual.

Anyway, if he called now, he'd miss part of the movie. Sam could yell at him later. Dean closed the phone again, turned off the ringer, and stuffed it back into his pocket. Slumping a little lower, mindful of bruises and sore back muscles, he got as comfortable as he could and stretched out his legs.

The scent of hot buttered popcorn wafted over.

"Here you go, Dean," Lola said, handing him one of the bowls as she sat down.

"Hey, thanks." He balanced the bowl on his stomach and at once began to munch, trying not to moan as the salty, buttery bliss hit his taste buds.

"It's just microwave popcorn, hon," she said, amusement evident in her voice.

"It's wonderful," he said around a crunching mouthful.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"Oh, yeah."

An easy silence fell as they sat in the near-darkness watching the movie, a silence broken only by the sounds of quickly disappearing popcorn and their bursts of shared laughter.

Dean sighed, just a little, his gaze on the screen, caught up in her sparkling dark eyes and impossibly elegant, slender throat. His knees did that melting thing again when she smiled.

He had never heard of her, not at age fourteen. No surprise there. But thanks to a nasty bout of flu that took a turn for the worse into a case of pneumonia, his dad had left him and Sam with Pastor Jim for a couple of weeks to let Dean rest and regain his strength after getting out of the hospital. Though Dean fretted miserably over Dad hunting on his own, and Jim being the one to look after Sammy, there was little he was allowed to do at Jim's beyond reading or watching TV from bed.

When he wasn't sleeping, that is, or getting brief visits from an unusually subdued Sam, no doubt severely warned by Pastor Jim's part-time housekeeper to behave himself.

One particular rainy afternoon, exhausted, listless, and utterly fed up with being sick, Dean woke up enough to turn on the three o'clock matinee, then shuffled back to bed with barely energy to spare to squirm under the covers again. Due to Jim's ancient TV and equally ancient rabbit-eared antenna, there was only one station that even came in clearly. Dean had the choice of whatever was on or no TV at all.

The movie was in black and white. He watched it with bleary, drooping eyes, and, quite unexpectedly, fell madly in love.

A quick peal of laughter startled Dean out of his thoughts, and he came back to the here-and-now in time to see Gregory Peck pretend to lose his hand in the mouth of the old stone face built into the city wall.

"I love that part," Lola murmured between quiet giggles, sounding about fifteen. She sighed dreamily. "You can have the princess – I'll take Gregory Peck any day of the week." She sighed again. "Not that I didn't want to be her when I grew up…"

"Yeah," Dean deadpanned. "Me, too."

She snorted, threw some popcorn at him, and focused again on the screen.

Dean grinned in the dark. It was different than watching a movie with Sam. When it was the two of them, it was all snark and critical running commentary and intoning memorized bits of dialog along with the actors.

He tried to remember the last time he'd taken a girl to a movie…

Dean finally shoved that thought firmly aside and simply let himself fall in love with Audrey Hepburn all over again.

At some point, he sort of drifted, still watching with half-mast eyes but the voices blurring and the black-and-white screen bleeding into the darkness of the room. When he blinked away a brief moment of disorientation that almost had him reaching for a weapon, the credits were rolling. Covering a yawn that nearly cracked his jaw, he rolled his head to the side and saw Lola watching him with a faint smile.

"You awake there, Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, still a little groggy. He pushed himself upright from his slightly tipped over slump and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm awake." He glanced at the TV with a mock scowl. "Think I missed the ending, though."

"Well, it didn't change, and it still made me cry." She laughed and swiped a finger beneath her eyes. "Never fails."

"Aww," Dean teased.

Lola reached out and swatted him on the arm. "I'm a hopeless romantic. I cry at everything."

Dean laughed, but as he got to his feet, it quickly turned into a stifled groan. He stood and stretched out stiffened muscles for a moment, then flicked his gaze to meet hers, feeling that strange shyness steal over him again. "Thanks," he said. "I had fun."

"You fell asleep, hon," she said, teasing right back as she stood up "Hope you don't do that a lot on dates."

"Uh…" he fumbled, looking away. Dates? Not exactly what he'd call them… "Sorry."

She took one of his hands in hers and tugged until he glanced over again. "Dean," she said gently. "I had fun, too. I mean that. Thanks for staying."

"Glad you asked." He gave her a wry grin. "I'd never hear the end of it if my brother caught me watching an Audrey Hepburn movie."

"It'll be our secret, then," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "And, hey, they're showing _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ tomorrow night at nine…"

"Really?"

"Yeah, this station's showing one of her movies every night for the next couple of weeks."

"Huh." He looked at Lola's small hands, still holding his. "Tempting," he drawled, raising his eyebrows and giving her a smirk. "Gotta say, this was the best threesome in a laundromat I've ever had."

"Had a lot of those, have you?" Her eyebrows went up too as she gave his fingers a quick flirtatious squeeze before letting go.

"Actually, you and Audrey are my first." His smirk turned into a good-natured leer.

Lola sniffed and rolled her eyes. But he caught the grin before she turned off the TV, then bent to gather the empty popcorn bowls and beer bottle from the floor.

Dean yawned again, and made a vague gesture toward his half-sorted piles of laundry. "Getting late. Guess I'd better finish this up and let you go home…"

"Take your time, hon," she said, heading for the darkened office. "I still have a few things to wrap up for the night myself."

"Okay." He put the chairs back before returning to his interrupted sorting. But first… Dean dragged out his cell and gave it a glance, swearing quietly. Three missed calls. No doubt each one a little more tense and frantic than the last. Sam would be pissed, and Dean couldn't blame him.

All dreamy fantasies of Audrey Hepburn on a Vespa disappeared. Dean sighed, aware all over again of the burn of exhaustion behind his eyes, the tight ache of bruises on his shoulders and back. But with the automatic economy of long practice, he quickly finished folding and packing the clean laundry into the bag. Turning as he slung the duffel over his shoulder, he looked up to see Lola leaning against a washer, watching him.

"Just like my boy in the service," she said with a smile. "Always fast and neat when it comes to packing up his gear."

Dean ducked his head. "My…dad – he…was a marine." Car keys in one hand, he started for the door.

"Ah, no wonder then. Can't help yourself." Lola fell in step beside him.

"My brother and me, we're just passing through," he said awkwardly, pausing as she unlocked the door. "We're heading out early tomorrow. If we weren't…"

"Well, Audrey and George and I will certainly miss you. Just make sure you find yourself in front of a TV at nine tomorrow night, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'll do my best." Dean shifted the bag on his shoulder, trying to find a spot that didn't hurt. "Thanks for…this." _For a night off_, he wanted to say. _For a kind face_ _and a friendly voice._ He cleared his throat. "For the movie, I mean. And the popcorn."

"Anytime, sugar." She winked. "And thank _you._ Best date in a laundromat _I've_ ever had. Come back anytime. Laundry and popcorn, on the house."

Dean found himself grinning back. "It's a date," he said as he pushed open the door. Stepping out into the darkness, a warm draft of dryer-scented air followed, and Lola gave him a last little wave before locking up again.

He climbed into the Impala after tossing the duffel on the backseat, and thoughtfully tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

_Breakfast at Tiffany's._ Tomorrow night. Hmm.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wreaked a fair amount of havoc on this section after getting it back from my beta, so any mistakes arising from the wreckage are mine.

 

Sam was grateful they'd managed to get a motel that wasn't, for the first time in a week, a crappy old dump on the edge of nowhere. The cluster of gas stations, truck stop diners, and fast food restaurants in the immediate area meant an easy access to supplies. Especially since Sam didn't plan on going anywhere for the next day or two, even if he had to sit on Dean to keep him in one place.

For the past couple of days, Sam had taken Dean's silences and listless single-word replies for surliness, and since they'd both been dragging with weariness anyway, Sam wasn't his usual observant and nagging self. Not to mention that they were so irritated with each other lately that they hardly talked beyond the needs of the case. And then there was the whole ticked-off, angry-grudge-holding-thing Sam had deliberately kept up for a few days after Dean had come back late from doing their laundry without a word of explanation.

He'd noticed Dean looking…not real great only just this morning. A few days ago, they'd visited a clinic to question a witness about a haunting. A clinic where – surprise – there had been lots of sick people. It had been on the tip of his tongue all day to say something to Dean, to point out how awful he looked, to ask if he wanted Sam to drive. Waiting fruitlessly for Dean to volunteer the information that he was coming down with a cold or whatever it was.

Sam snorted. Yeah, right. Dean hated being fussed over, hated it when Sam hovered, and so his stubborn brother went through the entire day ignoring Sam's sideways glances as easily as he ignored his obviously worsening health.

But, he admitted to himself, guilt rising, Dean had already been sick before Sam finally put the clues together and figured it out. Granted, Dean was a master at deception and deflection, and when he wanted to, he hid everything extremely well behind either a mask of stoic indifference or cheerful obnoxiousness.

Sam frowned as he pushed open the door into the SuperAmerica conveniently located across the service road from their motel. Now that he thought about it, Dean had been acting a little weird anyway in the last week, even before getting sick. Though he hadn't really been paying attention then, looking back, Sam could now see it. Dean's behavior had been…oddly furtive.

A knife twisted in Sam's gut at the thought of Dean hiding something, of more secrets between them. After Dean's anguished revelation of their dad's last words, and what had followed… Sam swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.

As much as he'd like to push, now was not the time. His anger faded, and he swiped tiredly at his eyes. They'd just wrapped up yet another hunt, and it was simply one too many in a long string in the past month. They were both worn to the bone, and now Dean was sick, probably with the flu, from what Sam could tell. Much to Sam's surprise, Dean had hoarsely admitted to feeling "kinda crappy, Sammy," after nearly coughing out a lung and moving as though every joint ached.

Time to stop and regroup. No more hunts for a while, no matter what Dean insisted.

Their depleted first aid kit still contained a pathetic supply of gauze and sutures, but absolutely nothing for something as mundane as the common cold. Which resulted in the fact that Sam found himself wandering the too-bright aisles of the SA's large convenience store a little after 9:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night. Luckily, it had a fairly well-stocked drug and first aid section – at inflated prices, naturally, but Sam hardly cared – and he loaded up a basket with various flu medicines, pain relievers and cough syrup. Next, he roamed the food aisles and picked up the familiar staples of orange juice, Gatorade, tea, and instant soup, remembering what Dean had always given him as a kid.

Sam even threw in a car magazine, but firmly drew the line at porn.

Mission accomplished in just over half an hour, he returned to their motel, plastic bags swinging from one hand as he opened the door as quietly as he could, hoping Dean was asleep. The TV was on, but what he could see of Dean was a curled lump under the covers, only one arm and the top of his head visible.

"Dean?" Sam called softly, shutting the door behind him. No answer.

Sam set the bags down on the table and slipped off his jacket, then moved across the room to check on his brother. The hand that hung out from beneath the blankets still held the remote in a lax grasp, and Sam gently pulled it from Dean's fingers.

No movement for the knife under the pillow. Not even a twitch. Dean was definitely out.

A brief glance at the television showed something old in black and white, and he thought he recognized Humphrey Bogart before he turned it off and the screen went dark. Dean had probably fallen asleep in mid-channel-surfing, looking for a baseball game or re-runs of _The Simpsons_.

Sam tucked Dean's hand under the covers, reluctant to wake him up, but wanting to get something into him to help reduce the fever Sam had felt when he'd gotten a hand on his brother's forehead.

"Dean," Sam said again, sitting on the bed. He gave Dean's shoulder a slight shake. "Dean, wake up." Another shake, a little firmer, then Dean stirred, and blinked heavily, staring up at Sam in a drowsy daze.

"Wha'?" Dean slurred, frowning. "Sammy?" He struggled beneath the blankets, hand now reaching for the knife, his sleep-glazed eyes wide in a sudden panic. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam said hastily, as he got a calming grip on Dean's shoulders, then deftly slid the knife away to toss it on his own bed. "Everything's fine," he went on reassuringly. "Really. Got you some flu medicine, and I think you should take some tonight, okay?" Steadier, but still sleepily pliant, Dean allowed Sam to haul him upright just enough to lean back against the pillows.

"Don't have the flu," Dean said, his voice like sandpaper on concrete and about an octave lower than normal. He rubbed at his eyes.

"I beg to differ." Sam started ticking off symptoms on his fingers. "Fever. Flushed skin, watery eyes. Dry cough. Sore throat, I presume, and, yes," he stared intently at Dean's face, "stuffy nose. And though you probably won't mention it, I bet you've got some nice aches and pains in your joints and muscles. Oh, and a headache, too." He poked at Dean's knees under the blankets. "How am I doing? Does that cover all of it?"

"Smartass," Dean muttered. And sneezed.

"I rest my case."

"Smartass _lawyer boy_," Dean added after another sneeze.

Sam handed him a tissue, then got up and started unpacking the plastic bags, setting everything on the table.

"Sammy, what'd you do, buy out the entire drug aisle?"

"Stop talking. You sound terrible." Sam cracked open the Tylenol flu medicine and snagged the glass of water still sitting on the small table between the beds. "Here," he said, putting two pills into Dean's hand. "Take these and drink all the water."

Dean might be stubborn, but he wasn't stupid. Though he gave Sam the evil eye, he proceeded to swallow the medication, drained the water glass, and resignedly accepted the cough syrup that Sam held out next.

"Why aren't you sick?" Dean demanded with a scowl. "You should be enjoying this right along with me."

"Must be that incredibly healthy lifestyle I practice," Sam answered dryly.

"Oh, yeah," Dean returned, equally dry. "That would explain it."

"Thought I told you to stop talking." Sam grabbed his bag and rifled through it for his favorite sleep shirt and sweats.

Dean rolled his eyes. Then winced and put up a hand to rub at his forehead.

"Headache, huh? Pain around the eyes?"

"Yes, thank you, I feel absolutely peachy. Why is the TV off?"

"You were asleep," Sam said, prudently moving the remote to a spot out of Dean's immediate reach.

"No, I wasn't."

"You were too."

"Well, I'm awake now, give me back the remote."

"No. Get some sleep."

"Are we having this argument again?"

"Dean, you need rest – face it, you can hardly keep your eyes open. It's been a long couple of weeks, and, dude – " Sam sighed tiredly as he headed for the bathroom, clothes in hand. "I've still got bruises on top of bruises, and I really just want to go to bed."

A brief silence, then, "Okay, Sammy," he heard quietly as he shut the bathroom door behind him. A small twinge of guilt plucked at him. It was a tactic that never failed, and Dean always let him get away with it. _Well, whatever works_, Sam firmly told his reflection in the mirror as he started brushing his teeth.

But when Sam came out of the bathroom a little later, Dean was once again an unmoving lump under the covers. A quick glance was enough to convince Sam he wasn't faking it, and he turned out the light with a grateful sigh after sliding into his own bed. He drifted off to sleep, as he had for most every night of his life, in the familiar comfort of Dean's presence in the dark.

xxxxx

Even asleep, Dean sounded worse the next morning. Sam had woken a couple of times during the night to hear him coughing and shifting restlessly. Now, even though he appeared to be sleeping deeply, his breathing was thick and congested, and his skin – when Sam managed to unbury him from under the mound of blankets – felt hot and dry.

Quickly pulling on some clothes, Sam figured he could leave Dean alone long enough to grab some breakfast and tell someone at the front desk they weren't checking out today. He dashed off a short note, just in case Dean did wake up, and left it propped against the clock on the nightstand.

He jogged across the parking lot to the motel office, deciding the sooner he woke Dean up for another round of medication and fluids the better, and then, hopefully, some breakfast. After that, well, Sam had a small stack of novels he could happily settle down with for a few days while he watched Dean nap.

A quick trip down the service road in front of the motel took him to the truck stop where they'd eaten the previous night, and Sam ordered up coffee and a couple of breakfast specials to go, along with half a dozen donuts. Dean would've flirted with the cashier, but Sam just gave her a smile when she sincerely told him to have a nice day. Then he zigzagged his way past parked semis and pickup trucks, hoping Dean hadn't woken up in a state of groggy panic to find Sam gone.

He breathed a quiet sigh of relief minutes later when he got inside the room again and found Dean still dead to the world. Putting the Styrofoam breakfast containers down on the small table, he crossed over to his sleeping brother and gently shook his shoulder.

"Hey, Dean," he said, waiting for the flutter of eyelids. "Wake up, man, I brought breakfast."

It took longer than it had the night before, but he finally got a response after some more coaxing and peeling away a couple layers of blankets. Slitted eyes stared glassily up at him, and a sluggish fist came out swinging to land harmlessly on Sam's hip. Sam had to grin. For the first time in what felt like weeks.

"Go 'way," Dean muttered hoarsely. "Lemme alone." He tried to roll away and burrow deeper under the covers again.

"I will," Sam promised, still smiling. "Really. But you need to drink something first, and take another dose of medicine."

Dean made a face.

"Yeah, I get that you hate taking the stuff, but you want to get over this, right?"

"Stop talking –" Dean broke off to cough, eyes watering by the time he was done. "—like I'm a stupid kid," he rasped out.

Smile gone, Sam winced at the sound of Dean's cracked voice as he helped him sit up. He reached for the box of pills and opened one of the little packets. "C'mon, you took some last night. You know it'll help. You'll sleep better."

Dean just blinked wearily at him, pale and tousled, somehow looking about ten years old. "I _was_ asleep," he pointed out with a cranky snap, crossing his arms over his chest. But then he rubbed his forehead as though trying to drive out an ache, sighed, and held out a grudging hand. "Okay," he said.

"Okay," Sam said, surprised, handing them over along with a bottle of water. Despite Dean's previous willingness to follow Sam's orders, he'd expected more of a fight this morning.

"God, this so sucks," Dean mumbled, slurping at the plastic cup of cough syrup Sam foisted on him next. "Not like –" he swallowed " – I've been hurt, you know? Not dyin' here. Don't really need this."

Sam felt his smile creep back at that and had to resist the urge to pat Dean on the top of his messy head. "I know, tough guy," he said, forced to hide the grin when Dean glared at him. "Insulting, isn't it?"

Only Dean. Succumbing to something as ordinary as the flu pissed him off more than getting tossed into a wall by an angry poltergeist.

Suddenly throwing aside the blankets, Dean swung his legs to the floor.

"Hey, wait a minute," Sam protested, practically lunging for Dean as he wavered to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What does it look like?" he said, panting slightly. "I'm getting out of bed to go take a shower and get dressed. So we can, you know, leave?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Sam shook his head, still gripping Dean's biceps and holding him in place. "We're staying here another night. Maybe two."

"Sam –"

"Nope, I mean it. You're not going anywhere. Aside from food runs, I'm gonna sit and read and watch you sleep."

"I can sleep in the car!"

Sam shook his head again. "Only if you wanna sleep in the parking lot. We've got nowhere we gotta be, so we're not driving five hundred miles in _any_ direction, we're not looking for a new job for at least a week, or hitting bars to hustle pool, or – or anything, and that's that."

"I'm all right!"

"No, you're sick, and I'm tired, and we're taking some time off." He tightened his hold on Dean's arms, feeling the fever warmth of the skin beneath his hands even as Dean began to shiver. "Just a few days, dude," Sam went on quietly. "You know we need it."

Dean let out a long breath and sagged a little in Sam's grip. "Yeah, I guess," he said, not meeting Sam's gaze. "Now let go, okay? I still need to hit the head."

Sam dropped his hands and stepped aside to let Dean make his unsteady way over to the bathroom. "I got breakfast if you want it," he said to his brother's back, getting a grunt in return before the door closed. His own stomach rumbling, Sam sighed, helped himself to one of the Styrofoam boxes and sat down to eat his almost still warm scrambled eggs, pancakes, and sausage.

xxxxx

Dean continued to show little interest in food, but Sam managed to talk him into half of a donut at one point, and kept him plied with plenty of fluids throughout the day. Other than that, his coughing, feverish, flu-ridden brother stayed in bed, mostly sleeping, not even demanding possession of the TV remote when his eyes strayed open, or making a fuss when Sam checked his temperature.

Which only proved to Sam how truly and thoroughly wretched he felt.

Sam gratefully settled down with a dog-eared paperbackfrom his stash in the Impala, reveling in the luxury of time to simply read, then caught himself nodding off more than once during the day, book lying loosely on his lap. He read and napped, and read some more, sometimes out loud to Dean, whether he was really awake or not. Other than going out once to grab some lunch and pick up a few more groceries – they'd been blessed with both a coffeemaker and a microwave – he was content to remain in their room and loll.

He tried not to hover too much when he saw Dean stirring, or heard the incoherent, delirious ramblings of his half-waking dreams. But when Dean woke up in the early evening, yelling Sam's name in scratchy panic, Sam threw aside his book and was at Dean's side in an instant.

Wide, fevered eyes stared dazedly at him, and Dean's hands fisted weakly in Sam's shirt as he tried to sit up. "Sam, Sam, what day is it?" he asked, his voice rising. "Is it Thursday? Tell me, did I miss Thursday? 'Cause I missed Wednesday, Sam. I don't wanna miss Thursday."

A little wide-eyed himself, Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's shoulders. "Dean, it's okay, man," he said, as Dean fought to pull free. "Calm down, I'm right here. What's the matter?"

"What day is it?" Dean demanded again, gasping for breath as a cough threatened. "Did I miss it?" He looked beseechingly at Sam.

"It's Thursday, Dean, it's still Thursday." Sam kept his voice steady, doing his best to soothe away lingering fever-dreams or memories or…something. "Just like it was this morning, okay? You didn't miss anything. We're staying here another night, and you've been sleeping most of the day, remember?"

"Still Thursday? Oh," Dean panted, some of the alarm easing in his face. He slumped forward, his forehead falling into Sam's chest. "Thursday. That's good, I guess, unless it's late, I mean. Is it? What time is it?"

"Dude, are you all right?" Sam eased up his grip on Dean's shoulders and gave him a gentle nudge. "What's up with missing Thursday? Got a date? Expecting a phone call? What?"

Dean tensed briefly under Sam's hands, a fine tremor in his muscles and across his skin, and Sam tightened his hold again. "Dean?" he said, worry sharpening his tone.

"Uh…nothin'," Dean mumbled, not looking up. Then he sneezed. Into Sam's shirt.

Sam snorted in disgust and flicked the back of Dean's head. "Oh, thanks."

"Ouch," Dean said, still muffled in Sam's shirt.

"C'mon, what's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Dean said again. He pushed away from Sam, now shivering violently.

"Hey," Sam said, getting up. "Put something warmer on." He pulled a well-worn hoodie out of his bag and tossed it at Dean. "And get back under the blankets. Time for your medicine, I think."

"God," Dean muttered. "Bossy much?" His burst of panicked energy having apparently deserted him, he stared vaguely at the sweatshirt in his lap before picking it up. He fumbled half-heartedly with the sleeves, getting stuck. "Yeah, thanks, Nurse Sasquatch," he snapped, as Sam helped him get the sweatshirt on over his head and into place.

Smiling, Sam patted down the wayward spikes of Dean's hair, even messier now. "No TV privileges for you if you can't be nice," he said.

"I'm sick. _You _should be nicer to _me_," Dean pointed out, attempting to rearrange pillows and blankets to his satisfaction, his efforts only succeeding in entangling himself further before he simply gave up, breathing hard.

"So you're admitting you're sick? Finally?" Sam pushed him flat and shook out the blankets, tucking them neatly around Dean even as he curled up again, still shaking with chills.

Dean moaned listlessly. "How can I feel this friggin' awful and not be dead?"

"Could be worse. You could be puking your guts out. Be grateful for that."

That earned him a glassy glare. "Oh, yeah. Thanks for putting the whammy on me. Way to go, Sammy." Dean actually seemed to go paler than he already was, and he swallowed hard, his eyes slamming shut.

"Oh, you're not –"

"No," Dean said thinly. A cough rattled deep in his chest. "Just…just don't talk about it, okay?" he managed to wheeze out.

"Okay," Sam said, contrite. He put out a cautious hand, resting it on Dean's forehead. Still warm, maybe even warmer than before, he thought with a frown, drawing back. Dean reacted with nothing more than a slight twitch of his eyelids. "Hey," Sam said softly, "how about I get you something to drink, okay?"

The faint mumble could have meant anything, but Sam took it as agreement. He grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the small fridge and shook out another round of Tylenol flu capsules.

"Dude, stay awake another minute. I need you to take these." He perched on the side of the bed and tapped Dean's cheek, getting a slow blink in response.

Dean sighed, but shoved upright enough to take the pills and wash them down with a swallow of Gatorade. "Sick of…taking this stuff," he said sleepily. "Messes with my head."

"I know. Sorry." Sam sat by his brother, watching him start to drift off, and with a flare of guilt that he ruthlessly squashed flat, said softly, "Dean, what's with it being Thursday or not? What are you so worried about?"

He was cheating; he knew that full well. Dean was falling asleep and just on the edge of loopy, and here was Sam, taking advantage of it.

"Dean?"

"Mmmm…wha'?" Dean's eyes were mere slits, his voice a low slur.

"Thursday. What's up, man? You've…" Sam hesitated, then decided to switch gears, to get to the bottom of the entire past week, not just whatever the hell was up with Thursday. "You've been acting weird for a while, you know," he said quietly. "Hiding something. Ditching out on me a couple of nights, acting like you don't want me around. Don't think I haven't noticed. What's going on?"

It wasn't how he'd planned on confronting Dean about his behavior the last few days, certainly not now when Dean was sick and slightly addled from medication, but he had to know.

"Dean?" he coaxed.

"Sammy…" Dean blinked owlishly up at him, pale, as worn out as Sam had ever seen him, yet still managing to give Sam his patented look of older brother assurance. "'S okay, Sammy," he mumbled. "Don' worry."

"But, Dean –"

Dean shook his head and tried to roll away, clearly done.

Sam leaned over and trapped him easily with an arm across his body. "Dean, c'mon," he pleaded. "I thought…I thought, no more secrets, right? You're kinda scaring me here."

"Not 'bout you." Dean reached out and clumsily patted Sam on the arm. "Nothin'. Don' worry," he repeated, eyes sliding shut. "Let it go, 'kay?"

"Then what? Is it you?" Sam asked, hearing bewilderment and a thread of fear in his words. "What's wrong, Dean?"

Dean stilled, stubbornly silent, but to Sam's astonishment, a dull blush slowly crept over his wan features. "You'll laugh," Dean muttered after an agonizing pause that nearly had Sam squirming. This time when he turned away, Sam let him.

Sam straightened up, his gaze not leaving his brother's face. What he could see of it. "I won't laugh," he said, earnest, sensing that Dean was on the verge of spilling. "Dean, you know I won't. Whatever it is. Please."

With his back to Sam and his head nearly under a pillow, Sam barely caught Dean's voice when he finally spoke. "Just…wanted to watch…some movies on TV."

Sam felt as though his own confusion had begun to rival Dean's of a few moments before. "Huh?" he managed. "What?" _Movies? _Was his brother more delirious than he thought? "Dean," he said, wryly teasing after he finally gathered his wits, "you wanting to watch porn is hardly a big secret."

A huff of indignation floated out from under the pillow. "Not porn. _Movies_," Dean repeated with careful precision. "Uh, with…um…"

"Yeah?"

"Nothin'." Clamming up again. "Never mind."

"Dean, it's okay. You can tell me."

Sam could be patient; really, he could. He sat and waited, hardly breathing, and clenched his hands into fists to keep from poking his brother. And was rewarded after a few interminable moments when Dean mumbled two words, a mere four syllables, into his pillow.

"Audrey Hepburn."

Sam's mouth sagged open. Then he had to clap a hand over it to keep a relieved, hysterical giggle from escaping when the pieces fell neatly into place.

"_That's_ your deep, dark secret? Watching _Audrey Hepburn_ _movies_?" A snicker slipped out. "You sly dog, you."

Dean rolled over and gave him a deadly stare, or what would've been one except for the exhausted half-mast eyes and the utter, pathetic misery etched on his face. "Knew you'd laugh," he croaked, reaching out to smack Sam feebly on the chest.

"I'm not," Sam said in a strangled whimper. His mouth twitched. "Well, maybe. Not exactly what I was expecting to hear," he added defensively, not quite stifling another snort of laughter. Then, remembering all the grim and sinister thoughts that had wormed their way through his mind in the last couple days as he'd wondered what was going on with his brother, he quickly sobered. "Thought it would be…something different," he said in all honesty, when Dean remained silent, his face averted. "Something, you know, scary. Horrific. Life-threatening. Not…" He grinned fondly. "Sweet and sappy."

"Oh, shut up," Dean grumbled. After a sneeze, he added hoarsely, "Do I need to bring up Molly Ringwald?"

"I was eleven!" Sam protested. "You can't hold that over me forever!"

Dean let out a decidedly evil cackle, which lost its impact when he started coughing, then panting for breath.

Sam got Dean upright, reaching for the Gatorade on the nightstand, and handed it to him. "That's what you get for laughing at me, jerk."

"You…laughed first," Dean pointed out after a couple of swallows. "After promising…not to."

"Oh, yeah. Um. Sorry?"

"You should be," Dean said sulkily. "Dragging a confession…out of a man on his…deathbed." He put out a slightly unsteady hand. "You so owe me. Gimme the remote." But then he yawned, his eyelids fluttering heavily, and he gave Sam a sleepy scowl. "Or…wake me up…at nine," he added, his already scratchy voice failing on the last words.

"Go to sleep," Sam said. "I'll wake you up. Wouldn't want you to miss your girlfriend." Then he remembered what he'd walked in on the night before, and the scene took on a whole new light. "So," he said, another smile spreading across his face. "When I came back last night, and there was an old black and white movie on…"

"Uh… Fell asleep." Dean pulled the blanket over his head. "Sleeping _now_."

Sam gave him a nudge. "And when you were supposedly off doing laundry for three hours, not answering your phone? Wanna fill me in on that?"

"Had a…date with a sexy-voiced lady named Lola. She made me popcorn," came the barely audible but satisfied reply. "She was _way_ more fun than you."

"What? Now you're picking up women at a laundromat?"

But Dean didn't answer. He was already out.

Sam waited a moment just to make sure, then went into the bathroom, shut the door firmly behind him, and let the laughter out. Great whooping gasps, until he was breathless and teary-eyed and had to sit down on the toilet lid. Wiping his eyes, he said, "Audrey Hepburn." And started up all over again.

But true to his word, by nine he roused an only somewhat out of it Dean, and even managed to persuade him to eat most of the soup he'd heated in the microwave.

Then, his snack of chips and Coke within easy reach, and, remote in hand, Sam climbed onto Dean's bed with the pillows from his own, and made himself comfortable against the headboard.

"Hey." Dean coughed. "What're you doin'?" He gave Sam's leg a feeble push. "Go back over there and read your book."

"Nope. Gonna sit right here and watch the movie with you."

"Like hell. Give me the damn remote and go sit somewhere else. Go do some geekboy computer stuff or something. Better yet, go find a bar for a couple of hours and make us some cash."

"Oh, come on. Don't be shy. It'll be like having a slumber party." Sam turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. "Okay," he said, a smile stealing across his face. "Here we go."

Dean appeared to give up arguing in favor of watching the opening credits.

Sam felt his mouth drop open for the second time that night. "Dean, this is a musical. It's got…you know, singing. Dancing."

"I know that, you jackass." Dean whacked him on the arm. "Shut up and watch."

"But…"

"Quiet!"

Sam subsided into stunned silence, shooting concerned glances at his brother. Who, hitherto, had only ever shown interest in a) classic (or not) B-monster movies, b) sci-fi or action thrillers where the good guys blew stuff up, and c) mindless comedies.

He studiously ignored Sam, but Sam could've sworn he heard the smallest of reverent sighs when Audrey showed up.

Huh. You thought you knew somebody… Sam grinned and munched chips. And watched the movie.

Dean had started off watching mostly sitting up, leaning back in a mound of pillows against the headboard like Sam. By the time Audrey was singing her heart out in front of the Eiffel Tower, Sam discovered Dean listing sideways and sliding down so far, his head was nearly on Sam's leg, his breathing loud and congested.

"Dude," Sam said quietly. "Straighten up, or you're gonna drown in snot. Come on, up you go." He maneuvered Dean, on the brink of a coughing jag, gently upright so he was resting against Sam's shoulder.

"Aw, man," Dean croaked. "I feel like crap. Ev'rything…hurts."

"I know. Here, have a Kleenex. Use it and not my shirt."

"Very funny." Dean wiped his nose, and with more luck than skill, pitched the tissue into the wastebasket Sam had set by the bed.

"You gonna make it?" Sam asked, tipping his head to check on his brother.

Drooping eyes met his. "Wake me up when…it gets to the part where she's dancing in the café. In those…little black pants." A slow, dreamy smile lit his face. "They used it in that commercial, remember? With AC/DC, dude, and 'Back in Black.' You'll know it when you see it," he rambled. "If you don't wake me up, and I miss it, I'll…kick your ass when I'm better."

"Okay," Sam said gravely. Trying not to smile.

"Thanks," Dean said, drifting off, his head heavy on Sam's shoulder.

Sam polished off the chips by the time he figured he had to wake Dean again. Seemed like that was all he'd done that day, now that he thought about it.

"Dean, I think it's coming up." He bounced his shoulder, jostling Dean's head. "Look alive."

Dean stirred after another bump or two. "Oh, yeah," he sighed, rousing. "Here we go. Check this out, Sam." Another appreciative sigh. "Look at that. The way she moves, and wears those skinny black pants. Hot. I mean, really, _really_ hot. She'd look great riding in the Impala, wouldn't she? Damn…"

Sam had to admit it; he could definitely see the appeal. And, when he thought about it, he could see a certain trend in the type of women Dean tended to gravitate to when he was looking for company. Slim brunettes were undeniably in the majority.

"So, how long have you been secretly crushing on Audrey, anyway?"

"Not goin' there. Shut up and watch."

Sam grinned, and with his brother nearly asleep on his shoulder, watched Audrey Hepburn sing and dance her way through the rest of the movie to a gloriously happily-ever-after ending in the arms of Fred Astaire.

"So," Sam said quietly, turning off the TV, not even sure Dean was still awake. "You gonna let me watch _Charade _with you tomorrow night? I'll make us popcorn."

"Mmmm," Dean mumbled drowsily, much to Sam's surprise. "Popcorn and Audrey… I'm callin' Lola."

_And that's all, folks!_

A/N: Dean's list of Audrey Hepburn movie viewing references are as follows: at the laundromat, he and Lola saw _Roman Holiday_; Sam caught him asleep in front of _Sabrina_; and together they watched _Funny Face_. The commercial he mentions in regard to _Funny Face _was a Gap ad from a few years ago with the slogan "Back in Black." Soundtrack provided by, yes, AC/DC. Doesn't get any better than that.


End file.
